"I NEVER saw a moor,"

A poet I met at Peter Murphy's Writers Getaway in Cape May once said to me that there is no such thing as "writer's block." When I asked him what it was that sometimes makes us stare at the same blank piece of paper (or computer screen), he told me that people who claim to have writer's block are trying to write the final draft on the first try. He was right.

As I look at this page each night, remembering my commitment to myself to write each and every night, and try to think of something profound to say, I think of that poet's advice. And I wonder whether something profound happens to us every day to inspire us. This morning, as I mulled over that question, the answer seemed, all of a sudden, to be obvious. I thought of Emily Dickinson (whose house in Amherst, Mass. is pictured above) and that, in her lifetime, she had only a dozen poems published. Yet, when they went through her room (also above), they found almost eighteen hundred poems, some written on no more than scraps of paper, in a chest. This poetic production came from a women had rarely left her home. And yet, she didn't seem to need to. She never ran out of observations to make about life, love and nature.

I NEVER saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.

When I thought of her this morning, I realized that we have "profound" moments every day of our lives. A number of my coworkers have said to me "Boy. I'll bet you can't wait until June to retire." My response seems to surprise them every time. "I am not looking at June right now. It will come soon enough. I am looking at today." I am, and since I am looking, I want to see every moment of it. Every sunrise, everybody I meet, every tree, every house, every sunset, every star, every single day and night.

It snowed last night. I have seen snow before hundreds of times, yet last night's snowfall was unique. I was at dinner with friends at The Riverside Cafe in Red Bank, eating a great meal at a table near the window. Across the street, against a brick flood-lit wall, I could see the snow drifting down through that light to the sidewalk below. What a beautiful sight it was as I feasted on baked Brie cheese sitting in a pool of raspberry compote, braised lamb shank, cooked until it fell off the bone, sauteed vegetables and orzata. Great food, great company and a great dinner. And what a beautiful experience.

I think that we sometimes concentrate on what's ahead rather than truly see what is right in front of us. I believe that a poet should be able to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. Miss Emily certainly did.

I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given. Emily Dickinson (XVII)